Chapter Twelve
October 2016—Philadelphia Ilya had a man pinned under the weight of his body.
The man was big, almost as tall as Ilya, and pressing back against him aggressively. Ilya wedged a knee between the man’s thighs, holding him
firmly in place.
“Fuck off, asshole,” the man growled.
Ilya leaned on him harder.
“All right, let him go, Rozanov,” the referee said. “I’ll call holding if you don’t back off right now.”
Ilya released the other man’s jersey, raising his hands innocently.
“Fucker,” the other man growled. He shoved Ilya before he skated away from the boards where Ilya had trapped him.
“That wasn’t nice,” Ilya called after him.
Ilya could hear the boos and taunts from the crowd as he skated to the
bench.
Fuck you, Rozanov!
You’re a fucking pussy, Rozanov!
Go back to Russia, you piece of shit!
Et cetera.
Ilya smiled to himself. He actually loved this. He loved being on the road, and disappointing home crowds across North America. He loved the insults, the booing, and, most of all, the sound of a crowd so gutted by his team’s performance that they couldn’t even bother to boo. A winded, humiliated crowd. That was Ilya’s favorite sound.
The crowd was still loud in Philadelphia. This was not an easy city to silence. He would have to work extra hard tonight to get that glorious, devastated quiet he craved.
He sat on the bench next to Brad Hammersmith. Brad was a veteran forward. He was also about a hundred years old.
“Making friends?” Hammersmith asked.
“I’m playing hockey.”
Hammersmith snorted.
A Philadelphia defenseman skated by the bench when the play had stopped. “Keep it up and see what happens, Rozanov,” he threatened.
“I know what will happen. My team will win.”
“Suck my dick, Rozanov.”
Be the best blow job of your life, sweetheart. Ilya winked at him.
“Faggot,” the other player grumbled.
Ilya shrugged. It was half true.
Maybe, like, thirty percent true.
At that moment, the scoreboard screens showed a highlight from the Montreal vs. Ottawa game that was also happening that night. Hollander had just scored a goal. Of course.
Ilya watched the footage of Hollander taking a quick pass and scoring with the impossible accuracy that he was known for. Ilya watched him hug his teammates, and the way his face lit up with a wide, jubilant smile. Ilya found himself smiling a bit too, on his bench in Philadelphia.
Well, now he was going to have to score two goals tonight.
October 2016—Montreal
“Jackie is pregnant.”
Shane stopped dead in his tracks in the middle of the Gulf of Saint Lawrence ecosystem at the Montreal Biodome. “Again?” he said.
Hayden laughed. “Jesus, thanks.”
“Sorry! I mean, congratulations.”
Hayden shot him an amused look. “Yeah, you sound super happy for me.”
Shane gestured to the stroller Hayden was pushing his one-year-old son in, and then toward the twin three-year-old girls who were peering into a touch tank. “Well, I mean…”
“Yeah,” Hayden sighed. “I know. But Jackie’s happy. I mean…she’s fucking bored, right?”
The nearby parent of a wobbly toddler glared at them.
“Sorry,” Hayden said quickly to the offended party. Then, to Shane, he said, “I gotta watch my language. Jackie always says so.”
“Hazard of our occupation,” Shane said.
“I know I—hey! Jade, sweetie, don’t splash your sister!—I need a swear jar or something at home.”
“I don’t think you can afford that.”
As a man without children, or a wife, Shane was in the minority among his teammates. Most of the guys were married well before the age of twenty-five. Hayden had married Jackie at twenty-one, after only dating her for a year. Shane had been there the night they’d met. Hayden had dragged Shane and a couple of other guys out to a club, where Hayden had met his future wife, and Shane had left to have one of the most embarrassing sexual encounters of his life with a very patient woman named… Olivia? Ophelia?
But Jackie was great. Hayden had done well marrying her. And their kids were adorable, even if naming the twins Jade and Ruby was a choice.
“Thanks for coming with us,” Hayden said, stooping to pick up the pacifier that his son, Arthur, had dropped on the ground. Hayden gave it a quick wipe on his shirt and plunged it back into Arthur’s mouth. Shane made a disgusted face that Hayden didn’t see. “Jackie’s sister is visiting and they wanted to go shopping and shit.”
“Swear jar,” Shane said.
“Right. Shopping and stuff. Anyway, it’s hard going anywhere with these three monsters, so I appreciate the help.”
“My pleasure, man.”
Shane was sincerely enjoying himself. The Biodome was a good place for him to go without getting mobbed. People were so distracted by the animals, and by trying to wrangle their own children, that they weren’t bothering to look at the other adults in the room. Shane was also wearing a ball cap and a simple black jacket to try to blend in even better. So far it was working.
“Oh shit—I mean, shoot—looks like Ruby is trying to steal a starfish.”
Hayden nudged the stroller handles toward Shane. “Here, you watch Arthur for a second, okay?”
He was darting toward the touch tank and the twins before Shane could reply.
Shane knelt in front of the stroller and smiled at the sleepy-eyed little boy. “Hey, buddy,” he said. “You having a good time?”
Arthur reached out and grabbed the front of Shane’s ball cap.
“Let’s go see some penguins!” Hayden said. He had returned carrying one twin under each arm.
“Penguins!” both girls squealed at once.
“Penguins!” Shane said, clapping his hands and trying to mimic the girls’ excitement.
Hayden rolled his eyes. “All right, children. Follow your big brother Shane.”
He set the girls down, and they each took one of Shane’s hands. Shane’s heart clenched. Their hands were so tiny.
In the Antarctic room, Hayden and Shane were able to sit on a bench with the stroller parked next to them while the twins ran up to the glass to look at the penguins.
“So Jackie has this friend…” Hayden said.
Oh, Jesus. Here we go again.
“No,” Shane said.
“I know, but listen. She’s gorgeous, and she’s cool. She’s a yoga instructor. You like yoga, right?”
“I’m sure she’s great, but I’m really not interested in dating anyone right now.”
“Why the f—I mean, why on earth not? You’re young, you’re rich, you’re famous, you…look like you.”
Shane gave him a flirty look. “Hayden, do you find me attractive?”
“Look, pal. If I was a woman, I’d be all over you.”
Shane laughed. In truth, he could think of worse scenarios than having Hayden Pike all over him. But he wasn’t going to tell him that. Besides, Hayden was his best friend. He’d never had anything but platonic feelings for him, blond hair, green eyes, and cleft chin aside.
“So this friend,” Hayden tried again. “Samantha is her name. I think you would really like her.”
Shane buried his face in his hands, almost knocking his own ball cap off. “Please stop trying to set me up on dates, Hayd.”
“I just want to see you happy! And I want you to have a hundred kids so you can know my pain!”
Shane scrubbed his hands over his face and looked up to see Jade and Ruby shoving each other in front of the glass.
“Fuck it. I gotta break this up,” Hayden grumbled, already walking toward them.
Shane sighed. “Tell your dad to lay off my love life, all right, Arthur?”
But Arthur had fallen asleep.
Shane imagined telling Hayden that he was into men. He knew Hayden wouldn’t shun him or anything. He maybe wasn’t the most worldly guy, but he wasn’t a bigot either. At worst it would probably make things awkward between them. Maybe it wouldn’t, but Shane didn’t want to risk finding out. There really wasn’t any reason to, anyway. Shane probably would meet a nice girl someday and settle down and then his occasional attraction to men would be moot.
His imagination continued to wander, conjuring a scenario where he told Hayden that he’d been hooking up with Ilya Rozanov since their rookie season. The hypothetical look on Hayden’s face made Shane snort out loud. He quickly covered his mouth and turned to look at Arthur, as if to suggest that the sleeping toddler had made the weird noise.
“Excuse me, are you Shane Hollander?”
Shane looked up and saw two teen girls gawking at him.
“Erm…” he said smoothly.
“Oh my god! You are! Can I get a selfie with you?”
“It’s pretty, um, dark in here,” Shane said. He tried to catch Hayden’s eye. If he started taking selfies with fans here, it would never end.
“Please?” The girls were both pouting now.
Shane kept himself from sighing. It wasn’t like he was doing anything else at the moment. “Sure. What’s your name?”
The girls lit up. “Oh my god, thank you! I love you so much! I’m
Emma.”
“I’m Jessica.”
“Nice to meet you, Emma and Jessica.”
They arranged themselves so they would all fit in the frame of Emma’s iPhone screen. As she was snapping pictures, Hayden returned. “Uh-oh,” he said.
It only took a second for Shane to realize that Hayden was referring to the dozens of heads that were now turned in the direction of his little photo shoot.
Sure enough, as soon as the girls thanked him and walked away, a man and his son approached Shane. He ended up being stuck in the Antarctic room for twenty minutes taking photos with fans and signing whatever objects they happened to have on them. When Shane made his apologetic excuse to leave, he found Hayden by the exit.
“Those assholes,” Hayden grumbled.
“They’re fans, Hayden.”
“They didn’t even recognize me!”
Shane laughed and slapped him on the back. “I’ll take a selfie with you, if you want.”
“I never should have become friends with you.”
Shane smiled and held the door for him so he could push the stroller through.
“Seriously!” Hayden continued. “My ego can’t take it, man! It’s like being friends with the damn sun or something. Wait—do I have all of the
kids? How many kids are here?”
“Three. Ruby is hiding behind you.”
“Okay.” Hayden exhaled. “I can’t believe we’re having another one.”
“You sure it’s just one?”
Hayden’s eyes were pure terror. “Don’t even joke, Hollander.”
October 2016—Washington
Ilya stretched out on his hotel bed and amused himself by tapping on the various customization options for the 2017 Audi Spyder. He had a 2015 Spyder already, so it wasn’t like he needed a new one.
But he didn’t have one in Vegas Yellow…
The television was turned to ESPN, but he wasn’t paying much attention to it. At least, not until he heard the name Shane Hollander.
It was just one of these dumb fluff pieces that the twenty-four-hour sports networks relied on to fill air time, a little glimpse at Hollander’s life away from the rink for the fans.
On the television, Hollander was standing on some sort of dock surrounded by the calm blue waters of an enormous lake. Thick green forest lined the banks.
“When the demands of the season are over, this is where Shane Hollander comes to relax and recuperate: his five-thousand-square-foot lakefront cottage.”
Ilya sat up. He had never seen any place that Hollander called home.
“This is my favorite place on earth,” the Hollander on the television said. “I just finished building this one a couple of years ago. My family’s cottage, the one I spent summers at growing up, is just over there.” He
pointed off-camera to his right. “I was still spending my summers there until this one was finished.”
“Awww, so fucking sweet, Hollander,” Ilya said, rolling his eyes.
There was some footage of Hollander kayaking alone on the lake, looking serene and stupid as he gazed around at nature. His voice played over the footage, talking about the place healing his soul or some dumb shit.
There were sweeping shots of some of the rooms of the cottage. A spacious, high-ceilinged living area with a leather sectional sofa and some very Canadian-looking plaid throw pillows and blankets; a modern, high- end kitchen with a large island in the middle; a pool table and a bar; a gym that had a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the lake.
Then, without warning, they cut to a shot of Hollander doing fucking yoga on the dock.
“I got into yoga last year and I think it’s really helped me focus, and it’s definitely increased my flexibility.” Hollander’s voice played over a lingering shot of him holding some ridiculous pose.
“Jesus Christ, you are so fucking boring,” Ilya muttered.
Hollander did look flexible, though.
The segment went on a little longer. Hollander talked about how important it was for him to have a place close to his parents. How he had offered to build them a new cottage too, but they’d refused. He laughed when he said that. When he laughed his nose crinkled, and Ilya’s stomach flipped.
Ilya wondered if Hollander had ever fucked anyone in that cottage.
Probably. Probably some nice, wholesome girl that he had met while…canoeing. Or whatever.
Ilya had filmed one of these dumb things too. He had taken the camera crew to the garage where he stored his collection of European sports cars.
The segment had had a decidedly different vibe from this Hollander one.
But that’s the way it had been for over six seasons: Shane Hollander was the wholesome, heroic sweetheart, and Ilya Rozanov was the obnoxious rock star. They were polar opposites, according to any NHL analyst, and therefore destined to clash forever—neatly dividing hockey fans in the process.
It’s the way it should have been. Shane and Ilya were opposites in almost every way imaginable, but it was getting harder for Ilya to deny
that there was something in his core that was drawn to Hollander. Instead of getting him out of his system with their hookups, each one just made
him want more.
It was dangerous fucking stuff.
